


The Ugly Duckling

by JeanJacquesFrancois



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanJacquesFrancois/pseuds/JeanJacquesFrancois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Robert writes to tell him that he is to be sent a squire, from Highgarden of all places as if Robert has forgotten the history of his own rebellion, Renly can’t help but feel a little insulted. He excels at welcoming guests; it is known across the whole of the Stormlands that the young lord of Storm’s End is second to none when it comes to courtesy and hospitality; and yet regardless, Renly is more than prepared to hate whatever Mace Tyrell sends him. </p><p>(Prompt: Where Renly and Loras get off on the wrong foot and where Loras takes more than a little while to grow into his looks)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Robert writes to tell him that he is to be sent a squire, from Highgarden of all places as if Robert has forgotten the history of his own rebellion, Renly can’t help but feel a little insulted. He excels at welcoming guests; it is known across the whole of the Stormlands that the young lord of Storm’s End is second to none when it comes to courtesy and hospitality; but regardless, Renly is more than prepared to hate whatever Mace Tyrell sends him.

As it happens, Renly doesn’t have to try particularly hard.

“What is _that?_ ” he laughs as his castellan pushes something forward towards him.

“It’s your new squire,”

Renly inspects a little closer, and indeed it’s a grubby little child underneath the curly mane of hair. He peers at it suspiciously and the grubby little creature peers back equally as suspiciously, glaring out at him from under its tangled mass of frizz.

“What’s your name?” he asks it.

“Loras,” it says, jutting its chin out petulantly and staring up at Renly with a brazenness that suits it ill. Its tone is haughty, almost insulting, and had Robert not demanded it, Renly would have sent it back. He was expecting a little boy, not something that the servants might mop the floors with.

And it truly is an unfortunate child, Renly thinks with a little vindictive pleasure. It has knobbly knees and sharp elbows, and to make matters worse, a poxy complexion that is mottled with pimples. It’s objectively ugly, the sort of child that only a mother could love, and yet it holds itself like a prince.

“Do something with it,” Renly tells the chambermaids as he imagines having the abomination in front of him trail after him everywhere. “Make it presentable, fit to be in my sight."  
  


* * *

 

 

Loras Tyrell is scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin is red and raw, but to Renly’s irritation, the boy remains an eyesore, more fit to be seen amongst the pigs than amongst the lords and ladies who flit through the corridors at Storm’s End like butterflies. The hot water has only inflamed the already poor skin on his face, and whether it’s the wetness in the air from the bathwater or just Renly’s imagination, his hair seems worse, the curls becoming more matted with every desperate tug of the chambermaids’ brushes.

“Cut it all off,” Renly tries to tell them with a laugh, but the insolent child squirms away at those words, his wet skin sliding through the grasp of the chambermaids as he rises from the water and runs naked across the room. He glares at the only chambermaid who is brave enough to come at him with the scissors, hissing like an angry wildcat backed into a corner.

Renly bids them persevere, but after the boy curses at the next chambermaid, he gives up. Reluctantly, he supposes that he shall have to concede the fact that he will have an ugly squire, and yet all the same, he sends him to bed without supper for good measure. It's a fitting irony, Renly thinks.

 

* * *

 

 

This year, Storm’s End is overrun with squires- boys of all ages who fight and jest through the halls when free of the knights they are bound to. When the weather is good, they sit out on the lawns, and secretly, Renly often wishes that he could join them.

As it is though, Renly contents himself with watching them with amusement as he and Penrose take a tour about the grounds, making the most of the sunshine. Idly, Renly searches for his own unsightly squire amongst the gaggle of boys. He prides himself on the fact that he's barely seen the boy that Mace Tyrell has sent him from Highgarden, and yet he imagines that he should be easy enough to spot.

He is quickly proven wrong, and Renly frowns as he looks from one crowd of boys to another. His squire is not with the group who are fighting carelessly amongst themselves with blunt tourney swords, and nor is he with the huddle of boys who sit atop the steps that lead up to the castle and watch the serving girls hurry to and fro, whistling when the girls disappear into the pantries.

“Why does my squire not play amongst the other boys?” Renly asks his castellan.

Penrose sighs as he considers the question, slowing his pace as he thinks. “He doesn’t fit in very well,” he eventually tells Renly. He inclines his head over to a tall willow tree that stands a little way from them, its boughs drooping as if melting in the midday sun.

Renly follows his gaze. In the shade of the tree there is a child sitting alone, the grass around him scattered with wooden toy soldiers. The mop of frizz is identifiable even from a distance and the boy has his nose stubbornly in the air as if he couldn’t care less that he is playing alone.

Renly cocks his head, his heart softening a little towards the child of Mace Tyrell's that is so ugly he cannot bear to have it in his sight for too long. He knows best of all the agonies of having to play alone. It is hard to believe now, when Storm’s End is ever brimming with guests whose laughter echoes loudly through the halls from dusk until dawn, but the memory of a time where Renly had nought for company but Stannis and his old maester lingers still. Shut off from the world by a towering wall of Tyrell soldiers, Renly had built his own world, one where he might have been the Master of dragons of the God of Fire instead of an achingly lonely who couldn’t really remember what food tasted like.

“Will the others not play with him?” Renly asks quietly, conflicted. He wants to feel a little gleeful that the Tyrell boy is suffering like he did and yet the knowledge that the child would have been but a babe at his mother's breast during the siege of Storm's End makes guilt pool uncomfortably in his stomach.

“Indeed,” Penrose tells him. “They call him names, and pull that hair of his. And he’s a proud child. He does not stand for their ridicule. He loses his temper quickly.”

“But someone must play with him,” Renly sighs as he watches him, not really listening. “Can we not find him a child in the servant’s quarters to play with?”

“Well,” Penrose says softly. “I had meant him as a playmate for you.”

“For me?” Renly laughs incredulously. He is too old for such things, and even if he weren’t, the idea that he might be pleased by the scrawny third child of the man whose banners had surrounded the castle and blotted out the sky is ludicrous at best. He'd have thought Penrose would know better.

“Mace Tyrell promised me an intelligent, lively child,” Penrose says evenly, as if he suspects what Renly is thinking “I thought he would please you.”

Sighing, Renly stares at the miserable thing for a while. He supposes that it’s not his fault that his father chose the wrong side in Robert’s rebellion; nor it is his fault really that he’s so unsightly. After a few moments, he wanders over, drawn between reluctance, pity and the faint desire to play with another child that has always been ever-present.

The boy lifts his head as Renly approaches, and stiffly, mumbles a few words of greeting that he's no doubt been taught. 

“What do you play at L-” Renly falters as he tries to remember the child’s name, “…Lomas?”

“ _Loras_ my lord,” the boy corrects him bluntly, not even looking up. He doesn’t say anything more and so Renly merely watches him a while. The toy soldiers that the boy is handling with such care are as comely as he is not, carved exquisitely from a pale wood that Renly thinks would be smooth under his fingers if he were to reach out and touch. They have been polished to a shine and whilst there is a faint frown etched on the Tyrell boy’s, the soldiers’ faces smile up at him, their brightly coloured features as cheerful as summer.

Great care has evidently been taken over the doll-sized soldiers and they even wear miniature little clothes that part of Renly wants to admire. There is a great array of garments- tunics in soft velvets, dainty breeches sewn out of cotton, tiny cloaks that are fastened with equally tiny brooches, small sweet little fabric shoes, banners that flutter slightly in the breeze -and yet everything has one thing in common. Everything is a deep green and everywhere Renly looks, tiny golden roses have been sewn onto the fabrics, the stitches neat but slightly crooked as if a young girl might have worked at them. The sight irritates Renly, and he finds he wants to stamp the green and gold banners into the dirt, as miniature as they might be.

It takes all his restraint not to, and Renly wonders whether the boy realises how the golden roses on their green fields offend him.

“You never answered my question,” he tells the boy irritably. “What do you play at?”

“Soldiers, my lord,” Loras says, raising his face to look up at Renly. “Do you wish to join me?”

“ _Join you?_ ” Renly laughs, his brow knitting together. “Why should _I_ want to join _you?_ ”

The boy shrugs and merely returns to his games.

Renly frowns. Nobody has ever looked so unperturbed at the loss of his company and it’s more than a little disconcerting. Where others would be crest-fallen, miserable even at Renly’s rejection of the idea that he might bestow his presence on them, this boy seems not to care. It’s as if he never wanted Renly’s company in the first place and Renly doesn’t think he’s ever been more confused. Men and women alike come from miles around to enjoy his company. The boy should be grateful that Renly has even deigned to show an interest in his childish pastimes.  

“Go on then,” Renly snaps, “I suppose I could spare a _few_ minutes for you.”

“As you like my lord,” is the infuriating response he gets.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite his squire's ugliness, Renly finds great pleasure in dressing him in his colours. Not because he feels any pride in seeing the glorious golds and blacks on the back of such an unsightly creature, but because when the seamstresses are finished and Loras Tyrell stands before him head to toe in Baratheon colours, Renly is free to burn the Tyrell silks and velvets that the boy brought with him. He watches cheerfully as the dark greens catch fire, the golden flowers wilting in the heat of the flames.

“My lord,” the boy asks stiffly beside him, watching the remnants of his old life turn to ash. His brow furrowed, he looks wistfully at the burning golden roses and for a moment, Renly thinks the boy about to reach into the flames to retrieve the singed garments evidently so precious to him. “Why do you burn my clothes?”

“Because you shan’t be needing them any more,” Renly tells him with a wide smile as he shifts the coals with the poker. “You’re of House Baratheon now.”

“But what about when I go home?” the boy presses, turning his ugly face up towards Renly in confusion.

“Home?” Renly laughs, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Why, here is your home now Loras,” Indeed, the boy has been given the quarters adjoining his own, and Renly imagines that he shall remain there for some time yet.

“When I go back to Highgarden then?” the boy clarifies.

“Well," Renly considers, "these clothes wouldn't do you any good in any case. You shall be a man full grown by the time you see Highgarden again,”

“And when shall I be a man full grown?” Loras asks quietly.

"My, you have a lot of questions for such a small unsightly thing," Renly gives him a hearty clap on the shoulder and the boy's knees almost buckle from the force of it. "You know child, it was curiosity that killed the cat. You'd do well to hold your tongue."

“Please, my lord?” he says through gritted teeth. "Just one question more. When shall I be a man full grown?"

Renly sighs, regarding the scrawny thing in front of him whose brazenness seems to know no bounds. He supposes that he could indulge the boy in his questions this one time. He is after all a child, one who evidently hasn't learnt yet that he is not to bother grown ups with torrents of questions. "Well how old are you now?" he relents.

“Twelve my lord,”

Renly shrugs. “Four years maybe then,” He looks down once more at the child who judging by his poor complexion has already started his change. “Three perhaps,”

Something in the child’s face flickers and Renly’s heart softens a little. The child probably doesn’t have any real inkling of how long three years feels, but he can see in his expression that he judges it to be an immeasurably long time. The boy that stands before him is as haughty as any child could be, brash and arrogant for one so young, and yet Renly thinks that he has found the boy's weakness.

“Shall I not be allowed to visit, my lord?” he asks quietly, looking once more from the burned clothing in the grate to Renly's face. “If I’m good?”

Renly laughs at the impudence. The boy has been here but a week and already he is talking of returning home “Don’t be silly Loras," he tells him cheerily, "squires don’t go home.” Indeed, Renly thinks to himself, this one shall not be given leave to return to the glorious white castle that stands on the Mander. Mace Tyrell starved Storm's End for half a year and whilst Renly cannot return the favour, he can take much pleasure in depriving the Lord of Highgarden of his favourite child for four years.

“My brothers did,” Loras protests, all attempts at courtesy forgotten in his evident distress as he tugs as Renly's sleeve. “Is it that you don’t like me my lord? Do you wish to punish me?”

Renly snorts as if the idea is ludicrous, snatching his sleeve away. “Making you stay here is no punishment, Loras. It's an honour. And besides, why should I not like you?” There are many reasons why Renly does not particularly like the boy, but that, Renly thinks, is besides the point.

Loras shifts uncomfortably on his feet, turning his face away to stare at the floor. “I’m not ignorant of our Houses’ history, my lord," he mutters, "I know why I am here.”

“Do you?” Renly smiles. “In which case, you should be proud to leave your roses and green fields behind. It is no honour to wear the sigil of a house that stood behind the Mad King.”

“But we were only following orders,” Loras protests.

“The wise don’t follow orders blindly,” Renly laughs, taking a seat by the fire and beckoning Loras sit at his feet. “A fool could have seen that the Aerys’ commands deserved no respect.” It is then, as the boy sits obediently on the floor beside him, that Renly spots the final piece of Tyrell clothing that he has yet to burn. It's a cloak fastened around the boy's neck, pretty, a softer green than the rest, with golden roses stitched about the hem. He gestures to it and Loras clutches it about him like a blanket despite the warmth from the hearth.

"You shan't be needing that either," Renly tells him, thinking of the lovely black woollen cloak that the boy was supposed to be wearing. "Now go on, throw it on the fire too."

The boy begins to shake his head, staring at Renly all the while, still clutching his soft green cloak to him. “No,” he says eventually.

“ _No?_ ” Renly echoes with a laugh, “You forget your place, child.”

Loras shrugs at his feet. “ _The wise don’t follow orders blindly,_ ” he repeats. “Was that not a lesson you were trying to teach me?”

Renly pauses, looking down at the ugly creature with a frown. “Yes, but I’m your lord,” he insists.

“And Aerys was your brother’s king,” Loras says with another brash tug on Renly's sleeve. “So which is it to be, my lord? Will you have me blindly obey, or will you have me judge each order on its merit as you would have had my father do?”

Renly laughs at the sheer brazenness of it. “And what’s wrong with _this_ order?” he asks curiously. “It’s only a piece of fabric. I haven’t asked you to drown kittens.”

“Yes, but my sister made this cloak,” Loras tells him solemnly, “And if she hears I have burnt it, she shall cry,”

“Oh,” Renly says quietly, picturing a faceless little girl somewhere in the south sobbing because of a burnt cloak. Ladies, he knows, cannot be held responsible for their fathers' actions by any fair man, and a little confused, he pats Loras' frizzy head. "Well then," he muses, "we'd better not burn it shall we?"

Loras smiles up at him. “No, my lord,” he agrees.

_“Renly,_ ” Renly says, surprising himself, “You can call me Renly,”

 

* * *

 

Oddly, Renly wonders if he's been taught a lesson by the odd little boy from Highgarden, and inexplicably, he finds it easier to put the siege of Storm's End from his mind in the coming weeks. Loras is indeed an intelligent and lively child and Renly learns not to be so ashamed to have him trailing behind him. He even learns to ignore it when the lords and ladies coming to pay their respects to him glance oddly at the child, evidently wondering why the handsome Lord Paramount of the Stormlands has chosen to take a wet rag as a squire.

Soon, he takes him everywhere with him despite the boy’s unfortunate parentage and many years too late, he begins to learn of the joy that sharing one’s games can bring. It’s odd, Renly thinks, strange even, that he’s learnt of the pleasures that men can bring before he has learnt of those that a boy does.

The Stormlands are theirs to explore at their will, and Renly is quite astounded at how much his new squire has to show him. He delights in all of it though and Loras teaches him how to ford streams without getting dirty, breeches rolled up and boots dangling from his hands, and how to bound across rocks like stepping stones when the river is too deep. He teaches him how to scramble up trees and cliffs, his footing ever elegant despite his ungainly appearance, and how to pick wildflowers so that they won't wilt by the time they're brought home. Renly in turn teaches him how to swim and performs the very necessary duty of rebuilding the bridges with the very many angry farmers who come chasing after them before they then realise who he is.

And whilst Renly remains unmoved by his squire's ugliness, he must admit that he's an entertaining child all the same. He doesn't seem to be aware of his own ugliness, and neither is he aware of his place, and more often than not, he will tug on Renly's hand without a second thought, dragging him along behind him with cries of _Renly, you have to see this._

He's talented too, astoundingly so, and within a few moons there’s not a squire within Storm’s End who he hasn’t ground into the dust, squires who Renly thinks shall not be pulling his unruly hair again for a some time. There are even knights who have met their match in him, barely twelve years old as the boy is, and the master-at-arms himself admits to Renly that he's never seen anything like it. _He's Barristan the Bold come again_ , he tells him, and Renly thinks that if the boy didn't have such a homeliness about him, he would be Jaime Lannister come again even.

Sometimes, when he has a moment to spare, Renly stands to watch the armoured figures from the courtyard steps, admiring the grace with which his squire moves, his sword a mere extension of his arm. He’s ashamed to admit it but it's easier to be proud when his squire is wearing a helm.


	3. Chapter 3

Before long, they have no secrets from each other, and whether it's a handsome groom to whom Renly has taken a fancy, or a comely hedge knight seeking shelter for the night, Loras doesn't seem to judge. He turns a blind eye as any dutiful squire should and if he hears the bed creak and Renly's panted swearing from inside his adjoining quarters, he doesn't say anything. He merely appears like clockwork the next morning, averting his eyes if Renly and his guest are still abed and clearing the sheets away to be washed if they are not.

They don't talk often of the nights when Renly has company, and when, one evening, Loras turns his ugly face up towards his and asks to know more, Renly is a little taken aback. He is used to men turning a blind eye to his behaviour when they are inside his own walls, but curiosity is not something he is accustomed to. He considers the boy's curiosity for a long few moments before he decides it harmless. Loras is almost thirteen. It is natural that he begins being curious about such things and he must know that Renly can tell him nothing of bedding women.

"Well," he sighs, gazing absent-mindedly out of the window at the raging sea below. They are sat in his personal solar, Renly on an old oak chair that had once been his father's and Loras on a low stool at his feet. Renly plumps up the cushions behind him. "What is it you want to know?"

Loras only hesitates for a moment. "What does it feel like, Renly?"

Renly laughs, a sound that brings a smile to Loras' poxy face. "Why," he chuckles, "It feels good."

Taking his stood with him, he moves closer to the side of Renly's chair. "But what _kind_ of good?" Loras presses.

And so Renly tells him. He speaks of the lingering looks and heated touches snatched between meals; of the thrill of the pursuit, the chase; of that rush of satisfaction as one's suspicions are confirmed and he leads another man to bed, stealing away up a secret staircase. He describes hot kisses on bare skin; teeth scraping against sensitive places; the way partners can dance as they grind against each other's hips. He tells of the hot press of arse around cock; the fight for dominance as they rut like animals.

Loras listens, entranced. There's wonder on his homely face and Renly feels pity for him rising in his chest. His interest has gone beyond a childish curiosity and Renly wishes he'd never spoken. It's unfortunate that such an ugly thing might also have to bear such an affliction, for Renly knows best of all how heavily a desire for men can weigh upon one's shoulders. He wonders, though, if it is maybe for the best. As a third son, with no lands and titles to be had, he imagines that Loras shall find it difficult to find a woman to care for him, looking as he does. A shame, he thinks, because if one looks past Loras' ugliness, he's witty and sharp, with all the talent a father could ever wish a son to have.

Neither of them speak for a while. Loras looks thoughtful, contemplative, but he nods when Renly suggests that they share a game of cyvasse. The two of them move to the table in Renly's bedchamber and Loras dutifully fetches the board and delicate glass pieces before sitting down opposite him.

The board is half set by the time he speaks. "Might you not kiss me like that too?” he asks softly. "I think I should like that."

A chuckle escapes before Renly can compose himself. “Why should I kiss you Loras?" he asks. He is torn between amusement and pity. Amusement because the suggestion is ludicrous. Pity because the thought of kissing Loras repulses him.

"Because I should like it," Loras says. "Shouldn't you?"

“I hadn’t thought on it.” Renly says diplomatically. Loras seems to have forgotten the cyvasse board and Renly sets the remaining pieces himself, even though as the Lord of Storm's End he is entitled to have it done for him.

Loras seems undeterred, confident in this as he is in all his endeavours. He leans over the table, towards him. "Well think on it now," he protests, curling a lock of frizzy hair around his finger as if it might entice him. "Wouldn't it be nice? You tell me often how fond of me you are."

“Yes, but I’m fond of you in a different way," Renly tells him gently. "You're my squire, Loras."

“And so what?” Loras presses, a frown beginning to form on his lips as if he knows that the words that next come out of Renly's mouth will likely be offensive to his ears. “I'll be a knight soon enough. Why shouldn’t you be fond of me like you’re fond of that hedge knight who came this week past? He was low-born. He would have slept in the stables had you not taken him to your bed."

Renly wants to tell him that it's not a matter of rank but a matter of desire. He holds his tongue. Loras does not bear insults easily.

"I don't know," he sighs eventually, reluctantly. "Perhaps it's your extreme youth which explains why I don't look at you like I might another knight. You're only a boy, Loras, and I'm a lord full grown."

“But I’m _almost_ a man full grown,” he argues, standing up in indignation. “I’ve gone through all my changes.”

“I very much doubt that,” Renly tells him fondly. He looks Loras up and down. He's very tall for his age, and his still worsening complexion hints that he is growing into a man, but his body is still a boy's one in part. He's slim across the shoulders, his legs long but without the strength he will one day have. Nor yet has his voice even begun to change.

“ _I have,_ ” is the petulant reply. “ _Look!_ ” Without shame, Loras' hands go to his breeches, deft fingers pulling the laces out in one swift movement. He draws out his cock. "I have my hair," he argues, "I'm not a little boy, Renly."  
  
Renly smiles at the soft downy hair that grows between Loras' legs. It's oddly less curly than the hair on his head, and a few shades darker. His cock itself is rather sweet, pink and rather small. It's perhaps the prettiest part of him. “That’s still a little boy’s cock,” he tells him softly. 

“ _Is not!_ ”

“ _Is_ ,” Renly laughs. He flicks Loras' pretty cock gently, grinning when Loras hisses. He looks like a particularly unsightly cat when he's angry.

"It is not!" Loras repeats.

Sighing, Renly stands and unlaces his own breeches. He draws his cock out, which whilst not erect, is still an impressive sight. Nevertheless, he gives it a few rough tugs, his hand sliding up and down his length enough to raise it to full mast. He smiles to see how Loras' eyes widen as they take in the sight, and frowning, Loras looks down at his own tiny thing before glancing back at Renly's.

"A man's cock," Renly explains with a laugh. 

Loras doesn't argue this time, and he doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's staring. “And you fuck men with that?” he breathes, his voice oddly strangled.

Renly chuckled. “Yes,” He smiles secretly to himself at Loras' shock. He's seen the same sort of alarm on many of his partners' faces, many of them adamant that they can't take the cock that Renly has presented to them. Needless to say, each man ends up with his cock deep inside them, their arse stretched around him, usually on their hands and knees as they grunt and groan with the effort and pleasure of it. "Of course I fuck men with it," he tells Loras proudly. 

“Would you fuck _me_ with that?” Loras is looking at his cock almost hungrily, and like everything in life, Renly suspects he sees it as a challenge.

“Don’t be silly,” Renly laughs. “Of course not. You’re far too young to be fucked.” It's not entirely true, and now that he's aroused, the thought of fucking Loras isn't quite as repulsive as it seemed earlier. It's almost tempting to agree, to spin his friend around and take him from behind. He looks at Loras' face then though, and regrets that the thought even occurred to him. Renly prides himself on the comeliness of the men he beds and Loras, he thinks, is too ugly even to fuck in the dark.

“Well what about a kiss then?" Loras presses, taking a seat again as if he's trying to show how reasonable he's prepared to be. "I’m not too young to be kissed.”

“No,” Renly agrees, for he makes a good point. “But I...”

Loras scowls at his hesitance. “Speak your mind Renly," he growls. "We're friends. I can hear whatever you have to say."

The words come tumbling out before Renly can help it. “It’s because you’re ugly," he breathes.

“ _Ugly?_ ” Whatever Loras was expecting, it wasn't that, and very briefly, his face crumples, before the scowl returns. He's evidently wounded and Renly suddenly feels terrible. As hard as it is though, he supposes that it's a truth Loras needs to hear. Sooner or later he was going to have to realise that there was a reason why the other squires had used to call him names and pull on his tangled frizzy hair.

“And I’m handsome," Renly tells him softly. "We're like chalk and cheese, Loras,” 

Loras’ scowl deepens and he rises violently. The cyvasse board falls to the floor and several of the pieces smash. Only a few remain intact and those shatter soon enough too; there is the crunching sound of broken glass under Loras' feet as he makes his way angrily to the door.

“And here I was thinking you were kind,” he snaps. “Worth caring for.”

He slams the door loudly behind him and Renly is left wondering if he ought to have given him a kiss just to placate him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge delay. Originally I had the entirety of this written, before my computer decided to lose it... It's a huge flaw of mine; I get so bitter when I have to rewrite stuff, even when it's not very long. Apologies for that.

Loras' voice is very slow to complete its change. It irritates him, and he goes about duties in silence, loath to humiliate himself by speaking in the presence of others. Renly is the only one he continues to bestow his voice on, and in turn, Renly tries not to laugh whenever it wobbles a bit.

As if by some pact, they talk no more of Loras’ ugliness, and neither of his affections. It’s a topic that they avoid like the plague, successfully even, until Loras is almost fourteen.

He comes to Renly’s chambers on the eve of his name day, and Renly can’t quite believe that the child he was sent is about to turn four and ten. Age has not been kind to Loras unfortunately. His skin has worsened as he nears manhood, and there is no proportion to him in the slightest. All long legs, he resembles a new-born colt if Renly is being kind, or like a spindly-legged spider weaving its web in dark corner if he’s being cruel.

Loras is folding those legs up now, sitting down beside Renly on his bed.

“Gods you’ve got big,” Renly sighs, “It seems like only yesterday that you were twelve and so tiny that you could have sat in my hand.”

Loras smiles up at him fondly. “I was never that tiny,” he says, “Not even in the slightest.”

“I guess not,” Renly smiles back. “So what do you want tomorrow? I’ll make you a gift of whatever you like.”

Loras shrugs, tucking one of his frizzy locks behind his ear. “You wouldn’t give it to me even if I asked,” he says quietly.

Renly frowns. “You'll never know if you don't ask."

“Well I want a kiss.” Loras tells him simply. “Lots of them to be frank. I want to be kissed all over by you and made love to.”

Renly resists the urge to groan. “Why?” he laughs, trying to cover his discomfort. "You could have brooch set about with emeralds that will match your banners when you’re knighted, or an inky back cloak so dark that night itself will be jealous. I'll buy you anything gold can buy. Wouldn't you like that?”

Loras’ eyes look a little sad. "A new cloak would be nice, I suppose," he murmurs, “but truly, I'd rather a proper kiss from you than all of those other things."

"But _why?”_ Renly groans, the words slipping out even though he knows it’s not wise to ask.

“Because I care for you,” Loras tells him. “You know that.” He stares up at him earnestly and Renly searches his face trying to find something redeeming about his face. He settles on his eyes, which if he looks past the frame of frizz and pimple speckled skin, are actually remarkably pretty. They’re a deep brown, and flecked with tiny droplets of molten gold.

It’s perhaps enough to make the idea bearable, and so Renly beckons him closer, biting back a sigh. Very gently, he presses a kiss to Loras’ lips. Loras is evidently hungry for more but Renly pulls away after a few moments. It’s the most chaste kiss that Renly has ever shared but he hopes Loras will be placated all the same. This way at least, Loras can now say that he got his first kiss from his lord, or at least what Renly presumes is his first kiss.

Loras apparently is not placated. He tilts his head up for a second kiss and Renly has to politely decline.

A frown comes to Loras’ face, creasing his forehead and rendering him even uglier. “Is that all I’m getting?” he asks.

“It’s a kiss,” Renly tells him evenly, reaching out to smooth Loras’ unruly hair over his unfortunate forehead. “It’s what you asked for.”

“But-“

Renly silences him gently. “No buts,” he insists. “You’re my friend, Loras, as well as my squire. I care for you a lot, but don’t see you that way.”

Loras’ face falls, and he blinks. “Because I’m ugly?” he whispers.

Renly still remembers the disaster that was the last time he told Loras he was ugly, and so he wants to shake his head. He only manages an odd jerk of his chin though. “It’s because I don’t see you that way,” he repeats.

“Which is because you think I’m ugly,” Loras offers. It’s more resigned this time than it was the time before, and Renly wonders whether Loras has finally accepted his appearance.

“I’ll tell you what,” Renly suggests softly. “I’ll find you a boy whore for your name day if you like, a handsome one that you’ll enjoy.” He thinks it might do Loras good to lie with someone who shall tell him sweet things. Loras is too old now not to have been fucked, Renly can see that. His squire is brimming with curiosity and that curiosity needs to be sated.

Loras scowls angrily though. “A whore?” he asks, his voice cracking as he loses his control. “What do you mean to imply, Renly? That nobody should take me to bed except for a few silvers?”

Renly opens his mouth to speak but Loras has already risen from the bed to stalk out. He shuts the door rather loudly behind him, and even though it’s his name day on the morrow, he refuses to even speak a word to Renly.

This time, he goes about his duties in a silence that has nothing to do with the way his voice is changing.

 

* * *

 

It’s two weeks before Renly dares to approach him. He seeks him out in his chambers and pushes open the door when Loras ignores his knocking.

Loras is sitting on his bed in his nightshirt and he scowls when he turns his head to see Renly standing in the doorway. “Do you need something, my lord?” he asks stiffly.

Renly lets out a long breath. “Loras,” he soothes. “I never meant to upset you.”

Loras’ scowl deepens. “Well you did,” he snaps. “Nobody likes to be told that they’re ugly and undesirable.”

“I know.” Coming to his bedside, Renly strokes a frizzy lock back gently from his face and sits down beside him. Cautiously, he loops an arm round Loras’ skinny shoulders and ruffles his hair a little more. “I’m sorry Loras,” he says, “but I can’t make myself look at you like that.”

Loras merely sniffs. “I guess I thought it might not matter to you,” he admits, pulling away, “that you might love me all the same. My kisses would be just as warm, and my embraces just as soft. I'd love you as much as anybody.”

"Yes Loras, I know, and I do l-

“But in a different way,” Loras finishes for him bitterly, imitating Renly’s voice. “I know. You told me. I don’t need to be told again.”

Renly groans wearily and curses the gods for sending him such an unsightly squire. He doesn’t want to dwell on how things might have been different if Loras had been handsome.

Loras groans too, and rubs his face with his hands, as if he could smoothen his complexion with his fingers. “Renly,” he sighs. “Can I ask a favour of you?”

“Course you can,” Renly tells him warily.

“Well, can you just knight me and be done with it?” Loras asks softly. “I’m good enough and I should like to go home now. Where people love me and are kind.”

Renly wants to argue, but he can already see the futility of it. “If you like,” he tells him wearily. “But I should miss you terribly.” It's not a lie; he's grown overly fond of the boy from Highgarden that he'd intended on despising. 

Loras shrugs though, unperturbed. “You can write to me,” he says dryly, “It shall be perfect. We can exchange letters but you shan’t ever have to look at me."

His voice is bitter and it makes Renly’s chest uncomfortably tight.


End file.
